


The Real Tragedy Here

by theletterelle



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bad Aftercare, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, pathetic attempts at self-soothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7577392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theletterelle/pseuds/theletterelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumlow has had it with this mission. Finding someone fucking the asset is the last straw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Real Tragedy Here

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _There will never be enough horrible uncaring trash aftercare for me. How does Bucky get (not) taken care of after trash? Rumlow's brusque not quite as terrible terribleness a la The Pierce Ponyplay Fic? Thrown in a cell alone a la The Broken Leg Fic? Give me Bucky suffering through or being tragically, pathetically comforted by things that aren't actually that comforting. Or maybe aftermath trash of Bucky being more messed up over the aftercare, because the rape was clearly wrong, but he doesn't know how to process the tiny bit of comfort from the aftercare. I'd strongly prefer Rumlow, Rollins or the rest of the strike crew over Pierce aftercare, Pierce is Not My Jams._

Thank God that debrief was over. Rumlow cracked his neck as he walked down the hall of the Colorado base, on his way out to find something to eat that wasn't goddamn MREs. After a three-week mission that had turned into six, he never wanted to choke down a veggie omelet again. He wanted a burger, and he wanted it two hours ago. It was a ten-mile drive down a twisting mountain road to the nearest town, but he'd make it in five minutes to hit the diner that made the best onion rings that had ever existed. His mouth was watering. A burger, onion rings, a beer or five...

Fuck. He felt in his pockets. He’d left his wallet in his locker before the mission, and now it was eight floors down and halfway across the complex. Rumlow quietly swore again and reversed direction, ignoring the lesser Hydra agents who jumped to attention apprehensively as he strode to the elevator, and glared at the tech inside until she ducked out and let him have it to himself.

It wasn't in his locker. Fuck. Had he brought it on the mission? He must have. Had he put it in the rifle bag? The armory was up on two, and there were few things Rumlow hated more than having to retrace his steps. Fuuuuuck. His fingers itched to punch something as he paced back to the elevator and pushed the button harder than he probably should have.

The armory was at the back end of the building, but the wallet was in the bag, right where he’d left it. Goddamn, if he’d known it was there he could have used it to buy vodka, or something to eat other than goddamn MREs. He put up with the smirk on the agent who'd been stuck putting away everyone else's gear, and made a mental note to have the man reassigned to bathroom duty or something equally revolting. No one looked at the STRIKE team leader like that. Rumlow had run too many ops and kissed way too much ass to get where he was, and the fact that he was still alive and still in charge meant that no one got to judge him.

Rumlow hit the button for the elevator. The garage was in the bottom of the complex, at the base of the mountain. Cars could come and go without raising suspicion, though probably even the most conspiracy-minded wouldn’t suspect there was a secret thirty-level base hollowed out of the mountain. 

STRIKE leader or no, it didn’t make the elevator come any faster. He hit the button again, and waited. And again. And again, his ire growing each time until he smashed it so hard it stuck. The button gave out a mournful beep and the light slowly went out.

“God _dammit_ ,” Rumlow ripped out, and ignored whatever looks he was getting. He’d take the motherfucking _stairs_ , Jesus, today was going to kill him. 

Going down the stairs three at a time took the edge off his anger. He could almost taste those onion rings. Level nine, level thirteen, level twenty, level what-the-fuck?

The stairwell door on twenty-five was propped open with a shoe. It wouldn’t have been a big deal upstairs; people ran up and down a few flights all the time, just to avoid those fucking elevators. But twenty-five was closed, waiting until they needed to expand further down. Anyone on this floor was doing something they didn’t want HYDRA to know about. And if HYDRA didn’t know, Rumlow better find out.

The floors down here were concrete, the walls unpainted cinderblock. Some joker had scrawled a HYDRA octopus in spray paint under a weak emergency light. Hilarious. Rumlow walked carefully down the hall, on high alert for whoever was operating down here.

He was two-thirds to the other side of the complex when he heard grunting. Rumlow froze, ascertained the direction, and crept towards the noise. Around the next corner was an open door, dim light beaming onto the floor. The grunting grew louder, interspersed with groans and words he couldn’t make out. Rumlow rounded the corner and froze.

What. The fuck. 

The chair in the center of the room was occupied and humming, a familiar tangle of dark hair visible from behind. On top of the asset was Coburn, grunting at each thrust, his hands clamped tight to the asset’s arms. The agent looked up in alarm. Rumlow didn’t even have to think; he strode in and pulled his sidearm. “You were warned,” he said, and shot Coburn in the head.

Coburn’s body jerked and crashed to the floor, face obliterated. Rumlow sighed. “Hands off the asset,” he said to the corpse. “You fuck him, it fucks up his programming, and he’s more valuable than you are. I told you that.”

Rumlow had had his eye on Coburn for STRIKE, once upon a time, until he’d caught Coburn about to feed cock to the asset, and realized that anyone that dumb would get half the STRIKE team killed on his first mission. Coburn was stupider than Westfahl, and that was saying something. But at least Westfahl could be trusted to follow orders. 

Who had even let Coburn get near the asset, much less take him away? The asset was naked, no clothes to be seen, so Coburn must have snatched him right before he was scheduled to be hosed down, and _that_ was probably Westfahl. If Westfahl wasn’t so good in hand-to-hand, Rumlow would shoot him in the face too.

Fuck. Rumlow rubbed his temples. The first order of business was to get this cleaned up. Pierce might understand, but Rumlow didn’t want to test that. Idiot or not, Coburn had his place in HYDRA, and Rumlow had no idea what projects he might have been involved in. If Rumlow had fucked up something Pierce was running, he’d probably be right beside Coburn with his own brains blown out. No, he needed to deal with this on his own, and quietly. Maybe Coburn had run off. Rumlow could make that story work.

Not without help, though. Fuck. Rumlow tapped the comm at his ear and set it to STRIKE’s private channel. “Rollins. Get down to twenty-five.”

Murphy’s voice came back through the comm. “Need something, sir?”

“Murphy,” said Rumlow, as patiently as he knew how. “If I needed you, I would have said your name. I want Rollins. Now.” He’d deal with Westfahl later.

“On my way,” came Rollins’ terse voice. Rumlow shut off the comm and looked at the asset, who was staring at the ceiling. Blood, brains, and bits of skull were splashed across his face and chest. He didn’t seem to notice. There were times Rumlow envied that detachment, and now was one of them.

“Who else knows you’re here?” he asked. The asset’s eyes flicked to him, then back to the ceiling. “Answer the question, soldier.”

“No one.” It almost sounded like a question. The asset’s voice was lighter than it was in the field.

“You sure about that?” There were only so many people Rumlow could disappear before it started looking suspicious, but the asset gave a tiny nod. Fine. Rollins would clean up the blood, they’d get the asset back to his cell, and once the body was safely disposed of, no one would know.

“Christ, you’re a mess,” Rumlow said to the asset, who didn’t reply. First thing was to get him up and scrubbed down. Rumlow looked around for the controls. This chair was an old one from the seventies, tan vinyl over steel, solid in a way carbon fiber never seemed to be. It didn’t tilt or move like the newer ones; it was a brick of a thing, back inclined at a 135 degree angle and armrests solid blocks to the side. The clamps were thicker too, and there were more of them-- head, neck, upper arms, forearms, chest, waist, thighs, Jesus, where wasn’t he cuffed? They must have needed it back then. His legs were separated, locked to the edges of the chair just far enough that Coburn had managed to worm his way in between them. His dick had left a slime trail across the asset’s thigh when he fell to the side. 

There was the computer, state-of-the-art circa 1980 or so. Its green prompt blinked at him from a twelve-inch monitor that must have been huge back in the day. Of course, back in the day was before Rumlow’s balls had dropped, so he had no fucking idea what he was supposed to do with this thing.

Coburn had obviously powered the chair up enough to get the clamps to close, but the halo pieces were still separate, one at each corner of the wide headrest. The humming was going to drive Rumlow bugfuck nuts in exactly three-point-seven seconds if he didn’t get this dealt with. He shot a look at the asset, but the soldier kept his eyes straight front as if he didn’t know Rumlow was there.

And then they flicked. Just once, over to the side and back. 

“Where are you, chief?” came Rollins’ voice down the echoing hallway.

“Shut the fuck up,” Rumlow hissed. “Get in here.”

Rollins came in and took in the whole situation at a glance. “Shit.”

“You’re goddamn right,” Rumlow said. “We gotta get him cleaned up and get this asshole thrown in a ditch before anyone notices. What do you know about this old computer?”

Rollins frowned. “Boss, why would you think I know anything about old computers?”

“Because you’re second in command and it’s your job to know the shit I don’t,” said Rumlow. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. Don’t tell me that.”

Rollins looked at the screen, poked a few keys, and shrugged. Rumlow ground his teeth. “Then who does know?”

“Maybe Murphy?” Rollins hazarded. “He knows all kinds of worthless shit.”

“Fine. Someone’s got to clean the asset up anyway.” Rumlow sure as hell wasn’t going to scrub him down and wipe his ass for him. He tapped his comm. “Murphy, down on twenty-five.”

“On my way, sir!” Murphy sounded entirely too cheery. Rumlow wanted to curse him on general principles.

“So.” Rollins stood back and surveyed the body. “He was…”

“Sticking his dick where he shouldn’t.”

“You think he was planning on wiping him afterwards?”

“Probably. Coburn was always an idiot.”

“An idiot who at least knew how to work the computer,” Rollins pointed out. Rumlow glared at him, then at the asset. The universe was just fucking with him now.

The stairwell door slammed open, and footsteps raced down the hall. “Sir!” came Murphy’s voice. Rollins went to the door and waved him in. Murphy’s cheerful look vanished when he saw the body. “What happened?” he asked.

Rumlow was getting really tired of that question. “What does it look like?” he snapped. “Get over here and see if you can get this chair working.”

Murphy took the computer in at a glance. “Sir, this is really old tech--”

“I know it’s old tech! Tell me you can get it working.”

“I can try. It’s older than I am.”

Rumlow pinched the bridge of his nose. All he’d wanted was a burger and a beer. 

“Hey,” said Murphy, sounding cheery again. Rumlow opened his eyes. “I don’t know this exact system, but it looks kind of like DOS, which I sort of know.”

Rollins rocked back on his heels and gave Rumlow a satisfied nod. Rumlow raised his eyebrows. They weren’t out of the woods yet. 

The asset took a deep, shuddering breath. Rumlow turned to look at him, and his eyes cut to the side again. Rumlow took a step forward. “What?”

The asset didn’t respond, but his eyes met Rumlow’s, slid away, and flicked to the side once more. “Jesus Christ,” said Rumlow. “Soldier. Tell me what’s your problem.”

The humming intensified, and the halo pieces began to close. The asset’s face went white and he began to hyperventilate. “Murphy!” Rumlow barked. “Shut it off!”

“I’m trying,” said Murphy, typing frantically. The asset began to pant, his mouth open and his eyes rolled to the side as far as they could go with his head immobilized. Rumlow followed his gaze and put everything together. “Rollins, find him something to bite down on.” They didn’t need the asset to crack his teeth or bite off his tongue on top of all of this. 

Rollins tore through the drawers, and in five seconds tossed a hard rubber mouthguard at Rumlow. He caught it and shoved it in the asset’s open mouth just as the halo closed around his head. “Murphy!” Rumlow shouted. He didn’t know what might happen, but if this ancient tech destroyed the asset’s brain, they were all dead.

“I’m sorry, I’m trying!” Murphy’s typing intensified. “I don’t know what I-- okay. There. Okay.” The humming stopped, leaving only the asset’s ragged breathing. “Well. Now I know what not to do.”

Rumlow was cursed to be surrounded by idiots.

“Just give me a couple minutes,” said Murphy. He pulled out his phone and eyed it sadly. “If we weren’t so far down, I could look up the commands. I know the basics, sort of, but there have to be forums--”

“No,” Rumlow snapped. The last thing they needed was for someone to track Murphy’s online activity and put two and two together.

Out of nowhere, there came a clicking sound. Rumlow’s eyes met Rollins’ and he jerked his head to the door. Rollins had the same idea, moving at the same time as Rumlow’s silent command. Rumlow thought rapidly. If it was someone low enough on the roster, they might be safe. Two bodies could disappear as easily as one. 

Rollins looked back and shook his head. Murphy had stopped typing, but the clicking continued. Rumlow looked around the room for a camera, although there wouldn’t be anything he could do about it if there was one. The damage had already been done.

Murphy frowned and pointed at the asset. Rumlow looked. The asset’s eyes were closed and the mouthguard was moving rhythmically. Rollins broke the silence. “The hell?”

The asset’s eyes snapped open. The clicking stopped. He looked around the room, closed his eyes again, and resumed sucking on the mouthguard.

“It’s his pacifier,” Murphy said with an incredulous grin. Rumlow couldn’t fucking believe it. The asset, HYDRA’s greatest killing machine, sucking on his mouthguard like a toddler. Rumlow sighed the sigh of the longsuffering. “Get him out of there,” he ordered, and turned to Rollins. “Get him cleaned up enough to move him. We’ll hose him down afterwards.”

“I’m not--” Rollins started, but backed down at Rumlow’s glare. “This is Gillette’s job,” he muttered.

“Paper towels are in the bathroom,” Murphy said absently, tapping on the keys. Rollins shot him a black look, but Murphy didn’t notice, and when Rumlow took a step toward him, Rollins rolled his eyes and went to hunt down a bathroom.

The asset was still sucking, the click less obtrusive now. His head was still surrounded by the halo, and the clamps held secure, but he had stopped struggling and the tension had left his body. Rumlow looked closer. The asset’s right hand was moving, thumb circling the pads of his first two fingertips. Over and over it slid, and between it and the mouthguard, the asset almost looked happy.

The two halves of the halo began to hum again, and instantly the asset stiffened up. But they pulled away this time, retracting into their housings. The clicking stopped, and Rumlow watched the asset’s throat work as he swallowed hard. 

“Awesome,” said Murphy. “Now if I can just… hah! Yes!” There was a snap, and the clamps around the asset’s ankles sprang open.

“Fine,” said Rumlow, hiding his relief. “Get the rest off him.”

“I don’t know,” Murphy said, “I mean, that should have worked for all of them.”

“I swear to God, Murphy, if you don’t have him out of there in the next ten seconds--”

Murphy typed frantically. “R-2,” he muttered, “R-5, okay, no, R-2.5.” Another snap. The arm restraints popped open. 

For the first time in this whole clusterfuck, the knot in Rumlow’s stomach loosened. Rollins came back with an armful of paper towels and that was even better. He started wiping the asset down. The asset sucked his mouthguard, his eyes half-closed and his whole body relaxed. Snap, snap, one by one his restraints released. When he was free, his eyes closed entirely and he sighed.

Rollins wasn’t gentle, but the asset didn’t seem to notice. The mouthguard clicked away as Rollins spat on the paper towels and scrubbed at the drying blood. It smeared into a red stain down the asset’s cheeks and across his chest. He looked less like HYDRA’s secret weapon and more like a kid caught fingerpainting himself. His peaceful expression didn’t change, even when Rollins wadded up a paper towel and used it to scour Coburn’s Last Jizz out of the asset’s crotch and asshole. Rumlow hoped it’d been fucking well worth it for Coburn.

“And, there.” Murphy hit enter.

The humming that had been torturing Rumlow’s nerves finally died. “All right,” he said, hiding his relief. “Let’s get him back upstairs. We’ll leave this motherfucker here till there’s time to smuggle him out and throw him off a cliff.” He reached for the asset, whose eyes twitched open. “Spit it out and let’s go,” Rumlow said. 

He held out his hand. The asset looked at it, then up at him. He sucked it once.

“I’m not fucking around, soldier,” said Rumlow through his teeth.

The asset sucked one more time, his eyes fixed on Rumlow, then spit it out into Rumlow’s hand. Rumlow tossed it on the pile with the paper towels and Coburn’s dead body. “Move,” he ordered the other two.

Twenty-three flights took a lot longer going up than coming down. Even the asset was panting a bit when they reached the top. Rumlow checked to see the coast was clear, then waved them into the hallway. The locker room was the second door on the right; Westfahl’s worried face met them when they came in, then brightened at the sight of the asset.

“No,” said Rumlow sharply before Westfahl could say anything. “You are in serious shit, you have no idea how much. How the fuck do you lose a naked assassin, Westfahl? Explain that to me. It better be real fucking good.”

“I,” Westfahl started. “No, hang on, Coburn said you wanted him for debriefing--”

“Why the fuck would I need to debrief him, you idiot? I was there!” 

That obviously hadn’t occurred to Westfahl. 

“I told you to get him cleaned up and put away. If I’d changed that order, I would have commed.” Neither had that. At least Westfahl had the grace to look ashamed. “Scrub him down,” Rumlow said. “Thoroughly. Inside and out, I want him clean.”

Westfahl looked at the asset, saw the faint smudges Rumlow hadn’t been able to rub away, but said nothing more than “Yes, sir.”

Rumlow turned to go, thoughts turning back to his beer and his onion rings, but a hand caught his sleeve. “Thank you,” came that light voice. Rumlow turned back. The asset’s attention was solely fixed on him. “I won’t say anything.”

Rumlow blinked once. “What.”

“I won’t tell,” the asset said. And wasn’t that just wonderful, wasn’t that fucking _perfect_ , that the Fist of HYDRA thought he could keep secrets just like a real boy. Shit. Rumlow hadn’t wanted to go there, but the asset had forced his hand. 

“When you’re done,” he said to Westfahl, “get him to technical and get him wiped. He’s been glitchy since we came in.”

“Yes, sir,” said Westfahl, on his best behavior. “When’s he going back out, Commander?”

The asset’s eyes hadn’t left Rumlow’s face. A betrayed expression flashed across his face, then there was nothing but a perfect blank. “Within the week,” said Rumlow. “Waiting on orders. Clean him, wipe him, put him in a cell. Think you can handle that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Westfahl again. Rumlow twitched his sleeve out of the asset’s hand and left. There was a body waiting for him to toss, and a burger out there waiting for him, and a whole lot of beer, and then maybe half a bottle of whiskey to burn the memory of this whole fucking day out of his brain.


End file.
